


The Honesty of Daylight

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Flashfic challenge, I just can't let things go, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 22:45:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14174988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: She hones her skills at a masquerade.





	The Honesty of Daylight

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo, I was all set to participate in the flashfic challenge. But I'm unfortunately away and Real Life intervened and I missed the participation window. But I carved out an hour this morning so I could do it, even if it was late, because I'm just that competitive. For the prompts: mask, daylight, embrace.

She hones her skills at a masquerade; it is nothing on the thrill of a case, murder or theft or blackmail, but entertainment must be found in what is on offer, at least until she can encourage something else. She reads the other guests, finds answers in their gaits and their postures and the tilts of their heads and the shrugs of their shoulders, in the words they use and the things they do not say. 

Some are inscrutable. Many are easily read. Even when she is dancing with the latter, the former pique her curiosity, present a puzzle she cannot help but try to resolve. Her curiosity will lead her into trouble one day, but this is harmless. One in particular catches her attention. A question, a hand on forearm, a secretive smile shared between them. Two enigmas playing the game.

She does not linger, seeking more answers than just this, but she always returns; some part of her wonders what he reads into it. She is not fooling him, she suspects, and finds she does not mind.

The party dies down; the dancing does not. One, two, three, one, two, three, into the plush room miles away from home. Clothes are discarded; she moves to remove his mask, but a tiny shake of his head and the press of his lips and the request in his eyes still her curious fingers. Let the illusion stand.

This is more thrilling than the game that came before, the neverending mystery leading to confidence, the slow unravelling and the quickly ignited fire. The pleasure in their embrace. She has touched him almost everywhere, learning the spots that make him sigh and shiver and moan, the way her own body responds to the surety in his own strokes and kisses and the scrape of his teeth against her neck. 

They sleep. Eventually she rises, sated and happy and still curious. Daylight has seeped around the corners of heavy curtains; she turns to her waltzing partner, still half-asleep. His mask has slipped; she removes it tenderly, kisses the newly exposed skin. He stirs.

“Morning, Jack,” she yawns sleepily, finger exploring his chest.

“Miss Fisher.”

He sounds content. It is a good sound, and she intends to hear it again; after all, there are so many questions left unanswered, so many subtleties still to read, so many games still to play. He stretches lazily, lifting her own mask away; she’d forgotten she was wearing it. Smiles. Pulls her closer with his hand in her hair, waits for her to kiss him. She does, laughing: the challenge of the masquerade is thrilling, but there is something to be said for the honesty of daylight.


End file.
